The Hyoid Murders
by Eat Love Write
Summary: Serial killers are known to take trophies, it seems a normal trait. This particular killer has a fetish with a paricular bone. The hyoid bone. After murdering several people in the United States, one of them being a marine, the killer moves onto London. Two seperate sets of people are drawn to the case. Can you guess who?
1. Chapter 1

**All right. Several warnings. I have never written for the Sherlock or NCIS fandom before. Attempting a crossover, therefore, is probably not the best idea. But I couldn't resist! I saw the fact that there were only 7 crossovers! I nearly had a heart attack. I may have cried a little bit. **

**The characters will probably be extremely OOC but I'll do my best. If anyone actually enjoys this, I mean even if one person does, I'll continue. I might continue anyway, because I can't get this idea out of my head! This is just a set up chapter, a little snippet NCIS. It's incredibly short, I know. Chapters will usually be a lot longer than this, promise. And from here on will at least contain a bit of Sherlock. **

**All mistakes are mine, feel free to point them out. I appreciate writing help! I'm a hard core Tiva and Johnlock shipper, but I'll try to tone it down. Unless you guys want it?...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS or Sherlock. Don't remind me.**

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Tony Dinozzo was bored. Feet sprawled across his desk, and fingers working absentmindedly at his phone, Tony's mind was annoyingly empty.

Yes, Tony Dinozzo was completely, and utterly, bored. And his partner wasn't even there to share in his fate. Not even McGeek was present. Tony frowned, idly shutting off his game of Tetris. Where was everybody?

Tony whipped out his phone, intending to ceaselessly text his partner until he got a response. Even if it annoyed her, (and annoying Ziva generally ended with crippling pain) at least it would entertain him. Soft breathing on his neck stopped him, however.

"Can not live without me for more than a couple of minutes, Tony?" Ziva breathed by Tony's ear.

Ziva David was _also _incredibly bored. No case had appeared for at least a week, and the entire of Team Gibbs had finished documenting _every _cold case. **_Every. Last. One_**. That alone was a testament to their boredom.

Ziva watched with pleasure as her partner visibly jumped, and whipped around to face her. Ziva had been fruitlessly wandering in an effort to entertain herself. She had taken a place out of sight of her partner, and observed him unobtrusively. Ziva had watched amusedly as the boredom she was feeling had seeped into Tony. She had seen him retrieve his cell-phone from his pocket, and had immediately known what he was thinking. Dinozzo's method of entertaining himself was to bother others. Ziva had her own method, one which she was currently enjoying .

Tony ignored the shiver that rippled through him. Ziva's breath tickled the hairs on the back of his neck, and left a not-entirely-unpleasant tingle. The woman had always had this effect on him. It had been incredibly distracting at first, but, as the years went by, Tony had steadily increased his immunity. It would never amount to anything, after all. He had nearly lost his partner several years ago, and, to be honest, he was grateful just for her presence. Nothing else really mattered.

"Ninja, I thought I had finally engrained manners in you. Sneaking up on people is not good." Tony reprimanded, trying to calm his racing heart. The blasted woman got him every time.

Tony shot Ziva his sharpest glare, and she responded by slinking over to her desk. She reclined lazily in her chair.

"Gibbs sneaks up on you all the time. You do not scold him." Ziva pointed out. Her pony tail brushed her back as she leaned back in her chair as a challenge. Ziva noted the figure behind Tony. _This would be interesting_. Ziva was confident Tony would fall into her carefully laid trap. _It would be interesting indeed._

"Yeah, well Boss, is Boss. Can you imagine someone trying to teach Gibbs manners?" Tony retorted sarcastically. An amused smirk over took his face. God bless the person who tried to teach Gibbs proper social niceties. If Ziva's smirk was any indication, Tony would regret those words. And he knew exactly why.

Tony's face scrunched in a flinch, even as Gibbs's hand was yet to collide with the back of his head. When it did, the solid crack resounded throughout the office. Ziva's exotic face scrunched minutely in sympathy, before breaking into a victorious grin. How she loved getting the one-up on her partner.

"My second ex-wife did." Gibbs said shortly, giving Tony his best glare. Tony winced. Rubbing the back of his head, he was unable to resist cracking a joke.

"That why she came after you with a seven-iron, Boss?"

Tony was going to regret that one too. Ziva was watching the exchange with visible glee. This at least, was entertaining. Tony was clearly about to get head-slapped again. She had warned him about the ex-wife cracks, but Tony never listened.

The sharp trilling of Gibbs's phone filled the bullpen.

"Saved by the bell." Tony muttered in relief. Ziva rolled her eyes.

"No, Tony. You were saved by the phone. There was no bell." Ziva snapped. Tony shook his head in despair. The woman would never get it.

Both turned to Gibbs as he snapped his phone shut. The Boss's face was carefully composed as usual. But, if Tony and Ziva didn't know better, they would say there was a bit of relief in Gibbs's tone when he barked,

"Gear up. Where's McGee?" Tony and Ziva leapt up so quickly that they missed the question.

"Case?" Both nearly shouted with joy.

"Dead marine. Nothing to be happy about." Gibbs snapped at the sight of their glowing faces. He wasn't entirely sincere. Gibbs, too, had been suffering from the lack of case-work.

"Course not boss." Tony immediately corrected. Both agents muffled their grins into mock-serious expressions.

Gibbs strode past them both to the elevator, and Dinozzo and David eagerly followed. Scooping up their gear, they scrambled after their boss.

McGee appeared before them, blocking their path to the elevator. His hand was gripped tightly around a cup of coffee, and he was sipping deeply. McGee seemed entirely relaxed, not festering with boredom like his two colleagues.

He abruptly caught sight of Ziva and Tony darting towards the elevator.

"Case?" McGee asked. At the sharp nod of the other two, McGee darted towards his desk. Gear was scooped up, and soon he was racing towards the elevator after his team. McGee nimbly squeezed between the narrowing opening, and took his place in the elevator.

His coffee perched forlornly on his desk. Situated neatly between scattered papers, the cheap cup radiated heat. A small tendril of steam snaked up from his cup and rose upward toward the infuriating skylight. Team Gibbs bounced eagerly in the elevator. Yes, all was right in the world.

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**Review Please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much everyone for taking an interest in this story! I really appreciate it! Thanks in particular to tkilyle and Old Ping Hai for reviewing. Thanks for pointing out my DiNozzo name error tkilyle! I can't believe I made that mistake, I am utterly horrified at myself. I blame it on exhaustion. There will be a bit of a time skip in this chapter, but I'll fill in the gaps. I'm just anxious to move this story along to where I want it.**

**Some Sherlock will appear in this chapter, but no NCIS/Sherlock meeting yet. Sorry. Next chapter perhaps? Anyway reviews and helpful tips or comments are always appreciated!**

**Disclaimer: Must I depress myself with this every chapter? I own nothing. Be quiet. I'm going to go cry now.**

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Gibbs dragged a hand wearily across his face. The leader of NCIS's MCRT hadn't slept for about 15 days, since this mess of a case had begun. The killer had already established a pattern. He had no particular type, and, aside from the first marine, every other victim had been a civilian. It was almost as if the killer had specifically drawn NCIS in… No, there was no reason. It was just the ungodly time of night nagging at Gibbs's mind. That must be it.

Joints creaking in protest, Gibbs slowly moved around his desk. He was really getting to old for this.

Silence enveloped the bullpen, interrupted erratically with a soft snore. The entire of his team was slumped from exhaustion. They had all resigned themselves to spending the night. If the serial killer was sticking to pattern, which he had no reason not to, there would be another murder tonight. And Team Gibbs could do nothing to stop it.

No leads appeared, and the killer made seemingly no mistakes. Gibbs could tell his team was frustrated, and, gruff as he tried to appear, he, too, was on edge. His fuse was growing increasingly short, but it was his job to hold his team together. It was a job he was not soon to fail.

Deciding to grab another cup of coffee to jolt his senses for the fast approaching dawn, Gibbs began his trek to the Starbucks down the street.

He passed the form of his senior agent half dangling out of his chair. Tony was bound to fall when he shook himself awake.

McGee, who Gibbs did not pass, had his face pressed into his keyboard. The case had been particularly hard on McGee, there had been a lack of any electronic trail. It had frustrated the young man, making him feel useless.

Ziva was reclined in her chair, head tilted up at the ceiling. She managed to maintain her elegance even in slumber. Ziva had been the last of his team to fall asleep, but sleep she had. They all needed it, even Gibbs, but the team leader couldn't afford to indulge. Gibbs treaded softly around Ziva's desk, he knew her doze was only light. His senior agent had discovered the consequences of thinking other wise. His team really was a bunch of children sometimes.

The elevator let out a sharp _bing, _as the door opened for Gibbs. Seconds later, he was moving out through the NCIS building's lobby into the Navy Yard. The guard on night shift was dozing on top of the reception desk. Gibbs hardly spared him a second glance. Starbucks was only a few buildings away, now that the Navy Yard had invested in one. It may have been specifically for Gibbs. Starbucks probably made thousands of dollars off of him alone.

Street lights illuminated the pristine sidewalk, and Gibbs glanced quickly up at the sky. A bit of red was peeking over the sky line, and, if Gibbs had been a different type of person, he would call it beautiful. As it was, the red abruptly became a reminder of something much more sinister.

Rounding the last corner to the coffee shop, Gibbs stopped in his tracks. The ex-marine had never been one who was easily surprised, and yet, he stopped in shock. Damn it.

Two arms were haphazardly thrown on the sidewalk. A pair of legs were situated in much of the same manner. A torso was present, which, even before catching sight of the head, told of the fact that the victim was this time a woman. The victim was fully clothed, as usual, and each individual limb had scraps of cloth covering it. Gibbs, ex-sniper that he was, had to brace himself before locating the head. It was always the worst part.

Every other limb had been amputated very cleanly. Everything was a straight cut, going directly through bone and muscle without a single jagged edge. Blood was always drained before hand, so there was never much of a mess. But the head, the head was always a different story. Ducky, the medical examiner, proved that, originally, the head was as cleanly cut as any of the limbs. It was after that when the killer proved just how insane he/she was.

The killer used their hands to tear into the neck. Tendons dangled, and muscle tore as a result. It was done with a ferocity that suggested that the killer wasn't as calm, collected, and clever as they tried so hard to seem. One thing was missing from every body. No other body part was ever disturbed. It was perhaps the most singular souvenir Gibbs had ever seen a serial killer take. The norm was a finger, or toe, or some other extremity. Internal organs were usually only touched when it involved the black market. Gibbs had seen his fair share of those. But this? This was new. Horribly, horribly knew.

Gibbs eyed the woman's head, and felt his stomach lurch uncomfortably. Even stoic Gibbs wasn't entirely comfortable with this gore. His face was always impassive when he regarded the victims, but on the inside, he was boiling with rage and disgust. Blond hair framed the woman's face, and her eyes were carefully closed, as if sleeping peacefully. A small, narrow, hole on her temple was the cause of death of every victim. The serial killer's preferred weapon was a nail gun. Ducky had confirmed that every victim was drugged before their capture, a common enough sleeping pill. They never had a chance to fight back. They never even had the opportunity to prepare for death. Gibbs couldn't help but think it was better that way.

The body's were always pristine, no blood or dirt visible. The killer was incredibly picky with the body's portrayal. Or, to be precise, the body parts' portrayal. No other harm came to the victim. It was almost considerate of the murderer. Until, that is, he stole the Hyoid bone out every body. The Hyoid bone was the one bone in the human body that does not connect to anything, or so Palmer had informed Gibbs. It was also the bone which granted us the privilege of speaking.

The bone was located underneath the tongue, and, honestly, Gibbs assumed it would be easier for a killer to go through the mouth. But, the killer was brutal, and sadistic, tearing up through the throat. The bone was torn roughly out, and then the body was disposed of. There was no particular pattern to the places, or, for that matter, the victims. They had been of varying race, gender, and age. No victim had appeared under the age of 25 yet, so at least the killer seemed to be avoiding minors.

Every security camera in the area of the abduction, and the disposal were always carefully disarmed. It would vary from white noise, to gum on the camera, to a repeated loop, or to the camera just being shot out. A quick scan of the Navy Yard's cameras showed no break in pattern. Cameras drooped downward dejectedly, almost as if they were children being scolded. Children being scolded…

Ducky's psych-evaluation of the killer centered around childhood abuse, and estrangement from peers. The killer, Ducky hypothesized, took the Hyoid bone for one of two reasons. One was that the murderer felt distant, separated from everyone else. Perhaps he/she had been abused as a child, perhaps he/she had some malformation of some kind. But either way, they had felt separate from their peers, and took the Hyoid bone as a representation of themselves. The second theory was that the killer had been verbally abused throughout life. Perhaps he/she had been constantly mocked or belittled, or had constantly been scolded by everyone in their environment. This maybe, was his/her way of silencing their tormentors. Perhaps he/she was trying to take away the pain they still felt. Ducky had gone on and on about abuse, and personality, and Gibbs had strode away. None of it led to a lead. Abuse be damned. Emotional issues be damned. Gibbs just wanted to catch his killer. The killer who left no evidence, and stuck strictly to pattern. An infallible pattern.

So, Gibbs was surprised when, on second glance, he noticed a piece of paper sitting on the severed head. His hand had been inching into his pocket, ready to summon his team, when he caught sight of it. It was gripped between the victims lips, as if the murderer hadn't wanted it to get carried off in the breeze. Mouth grimacing in disgust, Gibbs carefully stepped around the limbs littering the sidewalk. He bent, oblivious to the painful creak his back gave. The case was more important.

Man's handwriting scrolling across a page was all Gibbs's tired eyes caught a glimpse of, as he tugged firmly on the paper. Pressing said paper close to his eyes, Gibbs glared at it in annoyance. He hadn't brought his glasses, and the darkness wasn't helping matters.

Stepping under a street light Gibbs struggled to decipher the message. When he finally did, the experienced man couldn't help the slight chill that darted through him. Insanity leapt out from the page.

_Well, Agent Gibbs, I have to say,_

_I'm still waiting for you to come and play._

_I didn't think you would be so easy to beat,_

_So much for it being an 'impossible feat'!_

_Though I've left you no trail,_

_I didn't think you would entirely fail!_

_But, oh well, the game must go on._

_Perhaps a new place will bring better pawns?_

_Now that I've beaten NCIS,_

_Let's try London's 'best'._

Gibbs phone seemingly dialed itself, and he pressed it to his ear, paper gripped tightly in his leather-gloved hands. A sleepy voice answered.

"This is Vance." Gibbs wasted no time.

"Vance, there's been another. I need travel plans for my team. We're going to London."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes lay sprawled across the couch of 221B Baker Street. His fingers were pressed together in thought, as Sherlock rummaged furiously through his mind palace. He was only semi-aware of John, John who was sitting in his customary arm-chair. Now that Sherlock's train of thought had drifted even partially to his flat mate, it was stuck there. John, after all, was making quite the racket reading the newspaper.

John was a never ending enigma to Sherlock.

The man was Sherlock's friend. He even went so far as to seem proud of the fact. Sherlock acknowledged that he was a bloody terrible flat mate. Before John, he had scared off two others within a day. But, then, John had come around, and stuck. Sherlock was almost sure that he wanted John to stay now. When Sherlock had come back from the dead, John had been ecstatic. After he knocked Sherlock unconscious with a well-aimed punch to the jaw, that is. They had settled back into the normal routine that Sherlock had admitted to himself that he had missed. The two men ran around London chasing criminals, and they both reveled in it. Sherlock was… happy. For the first time in a long while, Sherlock was happy, and it had nothing to do with drugs.

But, if they only had a case! There was no shortage of crime in the world, but it was all so petty. London's criminals lacked creativity and it was infuriating. Where had all the fun gone?

A sharp knock on the flat's door jolted Sherlock out of his mind palace. He frowned in irritation.

"John." Sherlock commanded. The shorter, blonder man, gave Sherlock a look. John was fully aware that Sherlock was too lazy to get the door. He had already been half rising out of his chair after all. But, still, John would have appreciated the occasional please.

Sherlock was already deep into his mind palace. John's disapproving glare bounced off of the aloof man. The door rattled again, and John gave a sigh of annoyance. John walked over to the door, and tugged it open. A nervous, pimply, red-headed boy stood on the doorstep. He was twirling a piece of paper nervously between his fingers, and looking as if he wanted to be any place but here at the moment. When John opened the door, the boy sprang into action immediately. A paper was being stuffed into John's hands, and a high-pitched voice was assaulting his ears.

"Delivery for Mr. Sherlock Holmes." And then the youth was gone, darting back down the flat's stairs. John stared after him in surprise.

He stepped back into the sitting room.

"Sherlock, message just came for you." John said, bemused.

"I'm busy." Sherlock snapped, focusing solely on the happenings in his mind. John smirked mischievously.

"Too bad. It has the feel of a case." _Case _seemed to snap the lazy man to his senses. Seconds later, Sherlock had sprung off the couch, holding out his hand expectantly. John chuckled at his friend's antics. Sherlock had the maturity of a toddler at times. He placed the slip of paper into his friend's hands and watched as it was eagerly torn open. Sherlock's eyes furiously scanned the page, and a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat lit up his face.

"Brilliant deduction John." Sherlock tilted the paper downwards so his significantly shorter friend could read it. John felt a grin work its way across his own face.

_Catch me if you can!_

He was Sherlock Holmes's friend for a reason, after all.

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**Review please! All mistakes are my own.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for taking so long everybody! I should warn you now that I will probably update sporadically. I promise I'll try for once a week, and I'll never go more than two weeks without updating.**

**Anyway, thanks lots to tkilyle and Old Ping Hai for reviewing again! You guys made my day :). I appreciate the helpful tips tkilyle, I'm in no way a grammar whiz, but I hate making mistakes related to the show. Please keep up the constructive criticism, I really appreciate it!**

**I warn you all ahead of time, as I write more Sherlock there will be tons of mistakes. Frankly, I am not British, so when I try to be, I'll probably sound ridiculous. Try not to flinch too hard at my glaring errors. Any tips on being more realistic are greatly appreciated!**

**Right, there will be a meeting between the two shows this chapter! I've been dieing to write it. (Also thanks to everyone who started following the story, I smile every time a new person follows or favorites! I hope I don't disappoint!)**

**Any who, enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock or NCIS. That's not changing anytime soon.**

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Gibbs still paced the length of the plane, brow furrowed in thought. The boss-man looked bothered, something Tony was terrified to witness. Gibbs was the team's rock; he was the one who had done his best to seem strong throughout the mess of this gruesome case. But, this last murder had shaken the retired marine. And, it worried Tony.

Tony glanced over at McGee and Ziva, the only other two on the plane. It been decided that it was best to leave Abby and Ducky back home in D.C. Gibbs had echoed the fear of the entire team. The killer knew Gibbs's name, and most likely knew the name of every team member. Abby and Ducky were to stay completely protected back at home. At least the field agents could defend themselves.

Vance had managed to dig up a private jet in under two hours. Team Gibbs had immediately boarded the plane, and set off for London. They only had approximately an hour left of their flight, and Tony was bouncing in childish impatience. He was unable to enjoy the luxury of the jet, knowing that there would most likely be a murder awaiting them in London. That fact tended to put him off a bit.

Tony was seriously considering disturbing Ziva, (always a bad idea), when a distraction finally appeared. The video screen, sprawled behind the long wooden conference table on the plane, lit up. Gibbs stopped his anxious pacing, McGee emerged from his laptop, and Ziva dropped her book. Everyone's eyes zeroed in on the screen.

The director's face filled the screen, and a quick glance at the background revealed he was in MTAC. Vance's face was neutral, and he quickly took in every member of the team. _All accounted for_. Tony watched nervously as the director straightened, and began to speak. It could only be bad news. When had the director ever bared good news?

"There's been another murder. Couple blocks away from the London bridge, a dingy alleyway. MO is the same, victim is Noah Harding, 43-year-old male. No evident connection to the others. He was a London native. There will be more details when you hit the ground." The director said, voice grim. His eyes flitted to every team member, making his speech all the more dramatic.

Ziva narrowed her eyes imperceptibly. She hated this killer, and wanted him so badly. Team Gibbs rarely failed, and this failure was particularly painful. When they caught the guy, and it _was _when, not if (it _had _to be when) Ziva wasn't sure she would be able to muzzle her inner assassin. She wanted to kill the bastard. No one deserved to be butchered in such a way. No one.

"Do we have the cooperation of the local LEOs?" Gibbs barked. Ziva sincerely hoped the answer was yes, because she knew how Gibbs was with idiots. He preferred his own team to handle everything. To be honest, the rest of the team preferred the same thing.

The director looked distinctly uncomfortable. Gibbs raised an eyebrow at Leon's expression. The director was notoriously hard to ruffle. His brief display of emotion disappeared into his usual neutral expression, before he let out a common exasperated sigh. That sigh was usually reserved for when Gibbs was being particularly stubborn. Hence why it was common.

"I spoke with a representative of the British government. They didn't even want me sending a team. They said they had New Scotland Yard on it, and that they'd be fine. When I insisted that my team would be coming to assist, they gave me a warning. Said that the authorities would be particularly uncooperative, tried everything under the sun to get me to stop you from coming. Be careful Gibbs." Leon said. His brow furrowed as he mentioned the conversation, and Gibbs bristled. The British government was up to something. And, to add to Gibbs's resentment of politics, he was also going to have to put up with another police force.

The directors face vanished from the big screen, and Gibbs immediately resumed pacing. A crinkling loud speaker interrupted him.

"Please fasten your seatbelts. We are beginning our descent into London." Gibbs obeyed distractedly. He wasn't the only one. The entire of Team Gibbs had a pensive air about them. The director had added to the problems awaiting them in London. Just what was waiting for them once they exited the plane?

* * *

John was shivering. Sherlock had dragged him out of the flat in a rush, mumbling some nonsense that John was too irritated to catch. He was busy trying to slow Sherlock down enough to snatch his coat. It was a failed attempt. So, nearly an hour later, the sun hiding behind thick clouds, John was freezing.

It had been approximately 12 hours since the note had arrived. Immediately after receiving said note, Sherlock had gone into his mind palace. He had sat for hours, hands steepled beneath his chin, eyes vacant. John was confused as to what his frustrating flat mate could be analyzing. Sherlock had already finished analyzing everything about the paper the message had come on -_ flimsy wrapper, from a sandwich shop; found on the ground and used as assistance to remain anonymous; writer is a male; murderer, most likely; left handed-_ and had been satisfied on that route. But, still, the detective had sat pensive for hours, lost in that brilliant mind of his. The man had even refused to eat, but John had forced some tea down his throat. That was better than nothing.

When the call from Lestrade had finally come, Sherlock had been near emerging from his mind. His fingers danced across his thighs unconsciously as he practiced violin music. It had truly been only a matter of minutes before the genius would have leapt from his chair to pick up said instrument. Then who knows how long John would have been gifted with complicated melodies. The things he put up with for the sake of Sherlock's thinking.

A the sound of the phone, Sherlock had leapt immediately from the couch, long legs eating up the distance to his phone. John had already risen to get it, sure that the request would have soon been voiced. The consulting detective, however, had been oozing eagerness, and, for once, his laziness had disappeared. It frightened John a bit.

Sherlock had simply flicked open the phone, ignoring the caller ID.

"Where?" He had barked. Then, before John had time to anticipate, Sherlock was dragging him out the flat's door. The man had struggled very briefly, before giving in to his best friend. The man always seemed to get what he wanted anyway.

A short cab-ride later, John was being tugged down the street once more. It was ridiculous really, Sherlock was holding his bloody hand! People were free to talk as loudly as they wanted, however. Sherlock would never quite get the message of personal space. It's not like John was even bothered by it anymore. He had blocked the peculiarities out. It was _Sherlock Holmes_, after all.

The two men had stumbled to a stop outside an alleyway, John absentmindedly straightening his jumper. Being with Sherlock tended to make one self-conscious about one's appearance. Those damn cheekbones…

John eyed the yellow crime scene tape warily. Sergeant Donovan, the detective who usually awaited them at the barriers of crime scenes, was nowhere in sight. That could only mean that she was at the crime scene itself. Which could only mean that John was about to be treated to yet another dispute between Sherlock and Sally. Spectacular.

Sherlock swept under the tape, long coat billowing behind him. He kept the tape raised for John to slip under and follow suit. John was slowly, but surely, ingraining manners in the sociopath consulting detective. Both the taller and shorter man strolled in the direction of the crime scene. A pile of odious vomit led the way. John and Sherlock wrinkled their noses in distaste simultaneously, unaware of their like actions. They walked deeper into the alleyway, following the sound of voices. Everything was getting distinctly darker, and dreary, as the taller buildings gradually blocked out more and more of the already muted sunlight.

Finally, the crime scene came into view. John stopped, recoiling in horror. Even Sherlock, the genius who searched for such oddities as this out, halted. Whether it was to support his suddenly nauseous friend, or for his own stomach's benefit, was a mystery.

Severed body parts littered the alleyway, everything cleanly sliced and diced. There was a disturbing lack of blood, and a sickening organization. Everything was carefully placed. The neck and head, however, were carelessly destroyed. Tissue and muscle dangled from it like some disturbing decoration. Bloody ribbons.

John swallowed his nausea, and stepped closer. DI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan stood around the scattered remains. Both sets of eyes were focused on the newcomers.

Sherlock followed John's lead, shaking out of his momentary stupefaction. He darted around the remains, eyes peeled, mind whirling a mile a minute. He offered no acknowledgement to Sally or Lestrade. John was left to manage the necessary social interactions. It was the usual routine.

So was Sally's daily derogatory comment.

"Real good one isn't it, Freak?" Sally sneered. John did his best to ignore the woman. Her words were hardly biting, but John was always forced to quell the need to defend his friend. He had yet to lose it on Donovan yet. He was saving the occasion for something special, after all.

"Mm." Sherlock hummed. Whether it was in agreement or disagreement was impossible to tell. In truth, it really must be an interesting one for Sherlock not snap back a reply. John suspected that he enjoyed his arguments with Sally as much as he enjoyed the crime scenes themselves. "John?"

Knowing what was being asked of him without the words, John walked over to the head. He knelt down by the severed head of the middle-aged man, and studied it carefully. Slipping a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, he gently prodded the man's head. Interesting. A quick study of the torn muscle provided yet another discovery. This _was _interesting.

"Death by nail-gun to the head. But, that's not all, Sherlock. His Hyoid bone was removed." John informed the consulting detective, rising to his feet. The detective's eyebrows shot up.

"Interesting. What is it about the Hyoid bone? Right-" Sherlock mumbled, almost to himself, cut off by a smug Lestrade.

"The Hyoid bone is the one bone in the body that connects to no other bone. It is solely supported by tissue and cartilage." Greg finished. Both John and Sherlock looked at the DI, surprised. "One thing I remembered from biology. Forgot everything else." Lestrade said sheepishly.

Sherlock nodded absently, mind going into overdrive.

"So, there is a reason this particular bone is missing. Most likely points to our killer being ostracized as a child, something made him feel separate. Perhaps, speech impediment? The Hyoid bone does provide the ability for speech, right John?" Sherlock began, deductions tumbling out of his mouth. This part always fascinated John, it was like you could see the way the man's brain worked. Realizing he had been asked a question, John gave a sharp nod.

"The Hyoid bone provides linguistic skills, yes." Sherlock continued on, as if he hadn't even spoken.

"That, however, is not the reason he's committing these murders. No. He's doing it for fun. This is a challenge for him. Perhaps the particular bone is a bonus for him. Maybe. Or it's to throw us off the wrong track." Sherlock trailed off, eyes flitting to distant and nonexistent things. He snapped himself back to reality. "Either way. The killer is a left-handed male, approximately 5' 11''. He tears the particular bone out of the body using latex gloves. Uses his actual hands quite effectively, so obviously he's got quite a bit of strength. He's a serial killer, several victims before this, same MO. He doesn't have a type, however. Interesting."

Lestrade, Donovan, and John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"Brilliant." John muttered under his breath. Sherlock shot him a victorious smirk. Lestrade spoke up.

"Well, your wrong there, Sherlock. There's been no other victim in London. This must be the first." Greg said. Sherlock shook his head fiercely.

"There must have been. Use your little brains, find the other victims!" Sherlock snapped, agitation reverberating in his words. Donovan sighed exasperatedly. She opened her mouth to insult Sherlock, (because really, how many _other _things did she ever do?), when a voice spoke from the shadows.

"I believe we can help with that."

They all whirled around to see four people approaching them. John was aware of Lestrade and Donovan immediately drawing their weapons, and pointing them, demanding the new arrivals' identities. John wasn't worried, however. Sherlock looked completely undisturbed. He had his deducing face on. And, said consulting detective was smirking as he took in the newcomers.

John studied them as well, testing his own limited deducing ability. After all, years of hanging around Sherlock had to be worth something.

The man who had spoken was around John's age, if taller. Brown hair set in unorganized spikes, and a devilish smirk lit up his face, directed at Sally. He seemed as if he was a womanizer and a jokester. And that was the only thing John could deduce. Sighing internally, he moved onto the next man.

This particular man had graying hair, and was probably somewhere around the age of 50 or 60. His stance and hair cut told John that the man was ex-military of some kind. He looked able to hold his own in a fight, and oozed authority. This deduction was no better than the last.

The third man was younger than the rest of them, sporting brown hair like the other man. He looked a little younger than John. All John could deduce about him was that he was most likely good with computers, if the indentations on his fingers were anything to go by.

The last member of the motley crew that had invaded the crime scene was a woman. Somewhere around John's age perhaps? Good, she was an exotic beauty, and John would love to score a date. While the other men were all clearly American, she obviously was not. John struggled to place her; perhaps Israeli? She was Jewish, that much was obvious from the Star of David dangling around her neck.

All in all, John felt as if he failed in his deductions. Feeling eyes on the side of his face, he tilted his head slightly to catch Sherlock's gaze. A self-satisfied grin spread across said man's face. John was dimly aware of the group introducing themselves as NCIS and Lestrade and Donovan holstering their weapons. Most of his attention focused on the man in front of him, his best friend, who was dieing to show his genius to the world.

John sighed dramatically, shooting Sherlock an exasperated glare. The twinkle in his eye gave him away.

"Alright then Sherlock. Let's have it." John ordered begrudgingly. All attention focused on the pair, Sherlock began to do what he did best. Deduce.

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**Cliff-hanger time! Anyways, please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello again! Let me just say, thanks to everyone who reviewed and favorite and followed! I got so happy when I saw the amount of people who took an interest in this story. Did you know I got 8 REVIEWS on chapter 3? That was double all the rest of my reviews! I nearly cried. **

**Thanks to 2ndbestdetective for pointing out that London police don't carry side arms. I'm going to pretend that they do for the sake of the story, but I'll try to avoid mentioning it. John has his own weapon, so at least there's that.**

**I hope everyone has had a wonderful week, New Year, and Christmas, if you celebrate them. Anyways, all mistakes are my own, thanks, and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Still not owning Sherlock or NCIS. :(. (Though I did recently acquire both seasons of Sherlock and I am still freaking out from happiness. (Not to mention that I now only need season 7 to complete my NCIS collection))**

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The ride from the airport to the crime scene was quiet. The entire team was anxious. They were out of their home country. They were uncomfortable. They were even vulnerable, in a way. It was something Team Gibbs could not afford. They had a particularly violent serial killer to catch after all.

The London taxi driver dumped the team about a block from the crime scene. When he saw the flashing lights where he was being directed, the driver apparently became suspicious. He seemed unsure if he was driving around criminals, and shot the team a shaky look from his beady black eyes. The taxi stank of sweat, and the team was grateful to escape from it. Walking was good for you after all.

The team walked the short block to the yellow crime scene tape. Gibbs pulled out his ID, prepared to get the team into the crime scene. No one seemed to be in sight. Without a moment of hesitation, the team slipped under the tape, and headed deeper into the alleyway. Said alleyway stank of vomit, and Ziva wrinkled her nose in disgust. Several of the spectators from the murders back at home had done the same, and the fact confused Ziva. They were the ones who decided to observe a crime scene! Shouldn't they be able to hold their stomach? Apparently the London police force was no better.

The muted sound of voices led them in the direction of the crime scene. A voice rose in irritation as the team finally caught sight of the scene. Everything was the same. Damn it.

Ziva immediately identified the irritated party by the scowl on his face. Odd, did members of the London police force get irritated with each other so easily? She examined the two men that stood apart from the two members of the London police. They were obviously from Scotland Yard, their badges were in full view. One was an older man, face lined with tried patience. The other was a young woman, whose brown eyes flashed with anger. She stared down the man that had been scowling. Ziva got the impression that the woman was seconds from physically attacking the man. The other two men, who also gathered around the body, wore no badges, and seemed oddly separate from the other two.

One was tall and lanky, cheekbones prominent on his face. Dark curly sat upon his head, and light eyes were narrowed in part the ferocious scowl. The man wore a long coat, with the collar turned up, as if against the wind. There, however, was a distinct lack of wind. Odd. Was it perhaps an attempt to look cool?

The man next to him was his polar opposite. Short, ruffled blond hair covered his head, cut in a way that indicated past military service. The other man had at least 5 inches on the blond man, and, his height made the blond man look even shorter. Dark blue eyes watched the taller man sternly, and Ziva wouldn't have been surprised to hear the short man begin to scold the other man like a child. The man was clad in a worn leather jacket and jumper, looking distinctly out of place. They gravitated towards each other, clearly close. But, at the same time, clearly not police. Who were they?

The Team stepped out of their hiding spot, and the reaction was immediate. Ziva watched silently as the ensemble gathered around the body drew their weapons, all except for the curly haired man. Instead, he was staring at the team, gaze sharp. Ziva felt her skin crawl as he turned that analytical gaze on her. Ziva unconsciously slipped into a fighting stance, unnerved by the attention. She met his eyes defiantly, and watched bemused as his eyebrows shot into his hair line. His gaze swept back over the rest of the team, giving them the same treatment. Ziva had the uncanny feeling that he was seeing into their souls, reading their life story.

"We're NCIS. Naval Criminal Investigative Service. This is our case, our serial killer." Gibbs barked flashing his badge. Ziva glanced away from the strange man to see the older man from Scotland Yard flash a badge back at Gibbs.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. What's the United States Navy got to do with this?" The man's voice was curious and friendly, but his eyes scanned the team suspiciously.

"First victim was a sailor; killer sent me a note personally." Gibbs said gruffly to the Inspector. Lestrade nodded, holstering his weapon; he opened his mouth to continue the conversation when they were interrupted. All eyes turned to the two men who stood apart from Scotland Yard.

"Alright then Sherlock. Let's have it." The blond man said, rolling his eyes at the taller one.

The two officers of Scotland Yard groaned simultaneously, and the older man began rubbing his temple as if warding off a headache. The tall curly headed man, dubbed Sherlock by the blond one, grinned mischievously. He whipped around striding closer to the team. Then, in a voice coated with a British accent the man began to speak. Words slipped off of his tongue faster than Ziva could understand them.

"Very interesting company. Let's start with the easy one, yes? The young man with the short brown hair is the youngest team member. Single, estranged from his family, one sister. Skilled with computers, and the team's hacker. Hacks illegally, but it's for a good cause, so I'll let it slide. Writes on the side, a best-seller. Perhaps Deep Six? He writes about his actual team, they're not just fictional characters then. Interesting. Often hazed by the other male member of the team.

"Now onto said male member of the team. Senior agent, but not the head of the team. Prankster, but quite serious when need be. Single, has been for a while, commitment issues? Mother died when he was young, left with father. Raised with money, and used to luxury. Used to being head slapped by his boss. Obvious attraction between him and the female member of the team.

"Now, she is particularly interesting. Jewish, Israeli, and originally part of the Mossad. Father is Eli David, and both siblings and mother are dead. Excellent shot, and skilled in hand to hand combat. She's carrying three separate weapons, two guns, and a knife strapped to her belt. Single, and in a negative relationship with father. Evident attraction between her and the other man. They've slept together before, but something's stopping them now.

"That something is the oldest man. He is the team leader, and looks at his team as his family, his children in a way. He has a set of rules that he lives by, and that his team members live by as well. One of which is something along the lines of not sleeping with each other. Married several times, and divorced just as many. Lost a child somewhere in the process, likely at the beginning, which explains the rest of his failed marriages. He's into carpentry, perhaps he makes furniture. Single, and generally a silent person. He used to be in the military, before he left and joined NCIS. Doesn't have time for idiots, and detests coordinating with local police forces. That about covers it. NCIS may not be as ignorant as Scotland Yard. It's a miracle John." The man finished, whipping to face the blond man, dubbed John. "Quite an interesting collection of people is it not?"

Ziva stared wide eyed and slack-jawed at the man, Sherlock. She dimly heard Tony's whispered, "What the hell?" She echoed it silently in her mind. How had this man seen these things? How had he known her family history? Just… How?

John, the blond man, stared at Sherlock with open admiration. The wonder was clear in his eyes, along with a smirk of amusement. John shook his head slowly.

"Brilliant. Fantastic. How in the hell did you do this one Sherlock?" John exclaimed, speaking for generally everyone at the crime scene. Sherlock's eyes glowed at the praise, and he shot the shorter man a half-smile.

"Honestly John, are you even surprised anymore? The Freak is the Freak." The woman from Scotland Yard sneered. She looked Sherlock up and down with unconcealed disgust. Ziva watched as John stiffened, jaw clenching in irritation. He opened his mouth to snap back at the woman, when Sherlock did it for him.

"Donovan, do go find Anderson. I'm sure he's feeling separation anxiety. After last night, I'm surprised either of you could bear to be separated." Sherlock drawled lazily, glancing at Donovan smugly. The woman's face flushed and she stormed past, ramming Sherlock's shoulder as she went.

Ziva hardly acknowledged this, still staring wide-eyed at Sherlock. Who the hell was this guy?

"How the hell did you know my mother died?" Tony's voice was low, hesitantly curious. Ziva winced internally. His mother was a sore subject for Tony, he had to be feeling exposed at this stranger's knowledge of her.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"A picture is visible from your wallet which has fallen on the ground, might want to pick that up by the way. A young boy and a woman in front of a cinema. Woman is related to the boy, possibly his aunt, more likely his mother. Picture is old, look at the clothing. Considering you're carrying it around in your wallet, the boy is probably you. Why would you carry around such an old picture of your mother? You have no recent ones. Conclusion: your mother died soon after that picture was taken." The man explained quickly, before turning to Lestrade. Said man was looking at Team Gibbs apologetically, as if saying_, Sorry this guy isn't my fault._

"What about the rest? How do you know that?" Tony asked again. The man rolled his eyes again, turning back to Tony.

"Clearly you're the senior agent as you're the oldest member of the team besides the team leader. Signs point to you being a prankster, notice the careful distance the younger man has put between you two, as if worried you'll prank him somehow. You must, however, have a serious streak for your boss to put up with you. The way your body is positioned relative to your boss shows that you're prepared for him to strike you, and the unconscious tilt of your head downwards when you speak illustrates that it's on the back of the head. If your mother died then you were raised by your father, who was rich, evident from your bearing and clothing selection. One does not randomly acquire an expensive taste, you grew up with it. You're single, as you obviously are unconcerned with this trip, indicating you're not worried about leaving anyone behind. Also, if you were in a steady relationship, you wouldn't be leering at your coworker would you? Very few reasons for someone of your age and personality to not be in a relationship. You could be like John and have a flatmate who constantly crashes your dates, but, seeing as you are relatively wealthy, boarding with someone else seems unnecessary. Seeing as you're estranged from your father, and an obvious womanizer, it's most likely commitment issues left over from a childhood with two missing parents. Any other questions?" Sherlock snapped. His words were sharp and quick, straight to the point and biting.

His reasoning was valid, but who the hell notices things like that?

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly, glancing at John for patience. His flatmate was shaking his head at him slightly, reprimanding him for his curtness. Sherlock rolled his eyes. These NCIS folk may be interesting subjects to deduce, but they were still ordinary idiots. God, how Sherlock hated idiots.

"Sherlock, we need to cooperate with these people. Not scare them away. Remember our talk on manners?" John said sternly, shooting Sherlock a sharp glare. John treated him like such a child sometimes. The nerve!

"Dull. Besides, we don't need them. Tell them to go away. We have a murderer to catch. I need to think." Sherlock snapped sharply at John. No matter how interesting this NCIS team seemed, Sherlock didn't have time to play nice with foreigners. He needed to work, to think. "How is it they got past Mycroft anyway? He knows better than to let me get involved with foreigners. Brother dear has something against me causing international incidents." Sherlock continued, scanning the alleyway for cameras. He located one pointing at the crime scene, subtly observing. He shot it a pointed glare. It turned away.

The NCIS team still stood there watching Sherlock suspiciously. Sherlock could practically see the questions desperate to escape. He sighed dramatically. Time to make his escape with John. Hopefully this obnoxious team would be gone by then.

"Come along John. The game is afoot." Sherlock declared, gripping his friend by the arm. He began to tug the indignant man deeper into the alleyway. He would exit the back way and have them back at the flat in no time. This way, he could put more space between him and the astonished NCIS team. He turned to the team, who watched his departure cautiously. "It was a pleasure. I'll have my brother arrange it so you're back in D.C. by tomorrow morning." Sherlock turned to go, reveling in the stunned surprise on the team's face.

What he didn't expect, however, was for the team leader to cut them off. The graying man stepped defiantly in front of Sherlock, icy eyes sending a challenge.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but this is our case. It involved the death of a sailor, and that is our jurisdiction. There is no way that my team is going back home without a killer in tow. So drop your attitude, this is our case, get off it." The man practically snarled at Sherlock. Sherlock was surprised at the speech's wordiness. The man was habitually very brief. An odd contradiction to his personality.

The speech bounced off Sherlock's imperturbable exterior. He simply cocked an eyebrow, and returned the man's glare with one of his own. Sherlock gave a wry smirk, before deliberately stepping around the man. He made no move to stop the consulting detective. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder as he walked away, scanning the crime scene once more, before staring at the astonished Americans.

"Not a chance! This is the best case I've had in months!" And then the tall man disappeared, followed by his partner. Said partner shot an apologetic glance over his shoulder.

"Welcome to London." He called back, before snickering quietly to himself, and following his friend.

A shocked team stood in the middle of the crime scene. Gibbs rejoined them, face lined with anger. How he hated cooperating with locals. Especially one as arrogant as this Sherlock character. The man was clearly a genius, and obviously knew it. Finding the killer would go undoubtedly smoother if they worked together. But, for now Gibbs would continue his obstinacy, and use only his own team. They were perfectly capable.

A sharp nod was all it took for his team to begin examining the scene, taking photographs and sketches. Gibbs could feel their unease, their confusion, but he ignored it. It did no good. Gibbs glanced around the scene checking for anything unusual. When nothing stood out from the other crime scenes, he approached the Scotland Yard officer who was just watching resignedly as his crime scene was appropriated.

Gibbs approached the man, who was leaning against the wall. What was his name again? Yes, Detective Inspector Lestrade.

The man in question glanced up as Gibbs approached him. Gibbs had seen the man withdraw in the midst of the cocky man's rant, and lean against the wall. As if he was preparing to referee a match. He seemed accustomed to the mystery man's mannerisms. Therefore, Gibbs reasoned internally, he would be a viable source of information on the anonymous man called Sherlock.

Before Gibbs could even begin to question the man, he spoke. Gibbs mentally scowled at being interrupted. He hated it.

"Sorry about him. The man's a bloody arse. It was nothing personal." Lestrade said. Gibbs tilted his head at the inspector. Clearly used to the man, but, if he was such an antagonist, why was he put up with? Almost as if he heard Gibbs's silent question, the man ran a hand through his graying hair. "But, God help me, we need him. Not a case he can't solve." He continued. Gibbs frowned. Amateurs were not used by the police force. Then again, if Sherlock's little display was any indication, he was no amateur.

"Who the hell was that? And the guy who left with him?" Gibbs inquired of the man. Lestrade sighed, before rolling his eyes.

"That, was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, and his flatmate and best friend Dr. John Watson. If you insist on staying in London, I'm sure you'll get to know them both very well."

If Gibbs only knew.

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**Thanks for reading and please review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello Everybody! Sorry for the wait! Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed and followed and all that! It was even more than the last chapter, and I pretty much died from happiness! Almost to 20 reviews! I'm in a bit of shock. Just a bit (lot). **

** So, anyway, that NCIS tore me apart. I cried. My poor Ziva! Sorry, don't mind me.**

** This chapter provides a little more Sherlock and NCIS interaction! Maybe our favorite characters will decide to work together and compromise! Maybe J! Anyways, I'll stop my rambling now! Onward! Enjoy!**

** Disclaimer: I, amazingly, still do not own NCIS or Sherlock.**

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John closed his eyes in exasperation, as the sound of footsteps passed by his chair once more. Mumbling could be heard if the man passed particularly close to John's chair, but other than that, the flat was silent. If only the man would stop pacing.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sherlock abruptly halted his steps, eyebrows drawn together in thought. John's eyes flashed open, hoping for at least a bit of peace. Anything was better than watching Sherlock pace for two hours straight; it was a miracle Mrs. Hudson had yet to appear to reprimand Sherlock for the noise. Maybe it would be unnecessary?

As if crushing John's hope caused him pleasure, the infuriating consulting detective began to pace once more. His muttering was faster than ever, and his eyes flickered shut in contemplation. John watched with sadistic glee as he approached the coffee table. Perhaps if Sherlock rammed into something he would at least stop pacing for a couple minutes? As if he sensed the coffee table's location, Sherlock easily strode over it, eyes not even flickering. John sighed silently.

As Sherlock passed by John's armchair yet again, the man lost it. One could only hide irritation for so long without exploding.

"Sherlock. Sit. The. Bloody. Hell. Down." John snapped, gripping his flatmate roughly by the arm. Startled from his thinking, Sherlock shot John an indignant glare.

"John. I was thinking." Sherlock scolded, as if John was a child. John removed his hand to drag it roughly down his face. This bloody man.

"Well could you do it sitting down? You're wearing a hole in the bloody floor, and in my patience." John ordered, hand clenching around the newspaper he had been trying to read. Sherlock stared John down. Seeing no other apparent means to get what he wanted, John grabbed Sherlock's arm once more and swung him down onto the couch. Shooting him a poisonous glare, he sharply ordered him to stay. Sherlock quickly immersed himself in his mind palace once more, oblivious to the fact that he was now sitting.

John sighed in relief, flicking open the newspaper he had been endeavoring to read. Sherlock forbade him from leaving the flat when he was thinking, John being a conductor of light or some nonsense. Several seconds later Sherlock let out a frustrated growl. John glanced up in mild alarm, to see his flatmate jumping to his feet, and pulling at his hair. John sighed. That bloody man.

"I need more data. I can't do anything without more data for comparison. Those bloody Americans must have reports of some kind. We're going down to Scotland Yard. Grab your coat John." Sherlock easily pulled his coat on, tugging the collar up. A blue scarf wove its way around his neck and stormy eyes looked at John expectantly. Said man sighed, before getting to his feet and pulling his coat on. Sherlock strode out of the flat, followed closely by John, who sighed again as Sherlock hailed a cab and shuffled him into it. This bloody man would be the death of him one day.

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McGee's fingers flew over the key board, desperately attempting to discover the failure that made the security camera's malfunction. It seemed a useless endeavor. All the computer wizard had managed to discover was that the feat was accomplished with an untraceable laptop. The laptop was offline, and as soon as it came back on, McGee would be prepared. But, as with every other time, McGee knew it would not come back online. The killer was smarter than that.

McGee looked up in frustration from the laptop he was poring over, to see his colleagues doing no better. Tony was examining and comparing crime scene photos, looking for any discrepancies, and finding none. Ziva was researching the last victim, desperately attempting to find anything that linked him to the others. McGee knew without a doubt that she was finding nothing. This killer was near perfect.

All three looked up as Gibbs strolled into the room the team had been provided. The boss had been interviewing the man who had found the body when he had taken a walk down the alley to take a piss. The man was horrified and nauseated and knew absolutely nothing. No difference there. He mentioned briefly seeing a homeless man hanging about at the top of the alleyway, but the witness couldn't be sure. It was all a blur.

Gibbs scanned his team expectantly, waiting. Wordlessly, the team leapt into action.

"Same method of disrupting the security camera's boss, laptop. Offline now, just like the others. If it comes back online, we'll be notified immediately." McGee reported.

"Everything from the past crime scenes is identical, same portrayal of the body, same even cuts, and same bone missing. Nothing's unusual, Abby's not back with the tox report confirming that it was the same drug used to sedate them, but no signs pointing otherwise. Nail gun left the same shape and pattern as the other wounds. Everything is the same." Tony seamlessly continued where McGee left off.

"Nothing linking this victim to any of the others. Bank account is clean and no criminal record. The man was just a normal banker. No known enemies. His coworkers report that he walked  
home from work every day, like one of our other victims. I traced the route with security cameras. He appeared to have been taken in the middle of a camera blind spot like all the others. No sign of a struggle, I took a badge and viewed the spot." Ziva concluded, continuing the update after Tony. The Team was painfully aware of the truth. They had nothing.

Echoing their thoughts, Gibbs scowled.

"In other words, we've got nothing." The Team shifted uncomfortably. This was just a painful replay of their lives since this mess of a case had started. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. It sucked.

Gibbs sighed dejectedly, blue eyes showing his frustration. He knew what he had to do. But, damn, his ego wouldn't let him. Wordlessly, Gibbs exited the room. Waging an internal war, the NCIS agent began the trip to DI Lestrade's office. Dignity aside, Gibbs needed help. And, if his one appearance was anything to go by, Sherlock Holmes was the one to give it.

* * *

"Just give me the files!" Sherlock snapped glaring at the frustrated DI. Sherlock had gone to Greg for the files, attempting to bypass the Americans all together. Sherlock had nothing personal against them, in fact, they were rather interesting subjects. But, they would get in the way. Sherlock was able to deduce that clearly. For all the help they would be, they would surely unbalance it with trouble. Strangers always did.

Now, the consulting detective was standing disgruntled with his faithful blogger behind him, shooting apologetic glances at Lestrade. For some reason, the DI was proving to be particularly obstinate.

"For the last time, NO SHERLOCK!" Lestrade snapped, getting angrily to his feet.

"Why the hell not? You've not hesitated before." Sherlock demanded of the DI, taking a threatening step forward.

"Because these NCIS chaps aren't entirely incompetent! They aren't half bad. If you would just give them a chance Sherlock instead of being so bloody stubborn…"Lestrade shouted back, shooting Sherlock an uncompromising glare.

Lestrade meant what he said, conversations with the entire NCIS team had proved them a medley bunch, yes, but intelligent. Competent. They knew what they were doing, and Lestrade actually figured they would get on rather well with the prickly Sherlock. Desperate to prove everyone wrong as always. He wouldn't betray the NCIS team's trust, if Sherlock wanted the files, he could bloody well ask them!

His blood boiled with rage as he suggested such to the ignorant detective, and he scowled fiercely at the response he was given. The man was a genius sure, but bloody irritating. He could strangle the man. As if sensing the thought, John shook his head in exasperation. Why did Sherlock always bring out the worst in people?

John took a step in between Lestrade and Sherlock, reluctant to allow them to rip each other's throats out. After all, he needed someone to help with the rent.

"Girls, enough. Sherlock, stop being a child. Lestrade, I honestly expected more of you. Yelling at him gets nothing accomplished." And there John was, the unassuming army doctor, more useful than anyone Sherlock had ever known. It took a special skill to get through to Sherlock after all. John's voice was gently reproving, and Lestrade felt a bit of shame rush through him. He never meant to yell at the brilliant man, but, bloody hell, sometimes he was so irritating.

Lestrade wearily sat down, briefly closing his eyes in defeat. He watched Sherlock drop into a chair too, sulking. It was amazing the control that John Watson had over them all when he wanted to. And Donovan had wondered at the fact that Sherlock kept him around. If only she knew just how dangerous John Hamish Watson could be.

"Good. Now, let's talk about this like mature adults. Sherlock, if you so much as insult Lestrade once, or make one snarky remark, I will throw out every last one of your experiments when we get home. Are we clear?" John ordered, voice lowered as if talking to a wild beast. At times, that was an accurate description of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock afforded only a soft grunt, and Lestrade silently nodded. "Good. So once more, calmly tell us why you are unable to provide us with the case files." John was stern, but open-minded as he spoke. For all the world, he reminded Lestrade of a father disciplining his children.

"Because these NCIS folk are rather good. They're not utter idiots like you seem to think Sherlock. Honestly, give them a chance." Lestrade said, feeling much calmer and reasonable. John did a good job.

"What do you suggest I do then?" Sherlock said, not entirely keeping the sarcasm out of his tone. Lestrade bristled internally, but forced himself to calm down.

"Go ask _them _for the files. I won't be the in-between man." Lestrade said, gritting his teeth. Sherlock seemed to be considering his options for a moment, before he gave a nod, climbing out of his seat. He headed for the door, and Lestrade sighed in relief. John seemed to feel the same.

"See that wasn't so bloody hard was it?" Neither man felt that question deserved an answer. They approached the door, but before they had the chance to open it, it opened for them. In stepped the gray haired man, from the crime scene. Odd. Just the man they were looking for.

* * *

Gibbs opened the door to the DI's office, confidently stopping inside. What he did not expect to see was the exact man he was looking for standing there. He studied the man in apparent shock and opened his mouth to speak. The man cut him off.

"Interesting. I was coming to look for you, Agent Gibbs, and you for me. Odd that we both chose the Detective Inspector for assistance isn't it?" His deep baritone was unbearably cocky, and Gibbs reigned in his overwhelming urge to head slap the man. Sure to be frowned upon.

"Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson. We could use your assistance." Gibbs gritted out through his tightly clenched teeth. Leroy Jethro Gibbs did not ask for assistance. And yet, here he was.

"Could you now? Even John here could have told you that." The man sniped right back. Gibbs's fingers literally trembled to slap the back of the man's head_. Control yourself marine._

"Your _assistance_, Mr. Holmes. It is still very much my team's case. You'll just have to deal with that." Gibbs said shortly, eyeing the man in front of him. He watched as the man's nostrils flared in indignation, then as gray eyes sparkled roguishly.

"Are you sure about that Agent Gibbs? It seems _you_ need _my_ help. Shouldn't _I_ draw the terms then?" Sherlock inquired, cockiness shining full blast once more. Damn that man. Gibbs's mind raced.

"You need our help equally. Looking for case files, are you not? So, I believe we are at a stalemate Mr. Holmes." Gibbs replied quickly, eyebrows raised in a challenge. To the retired marine's surprise, the man showed no sign of irritation. Instead, a small smirk worked its way onto his mouth as he gave a sharp nod.

"Very well. If I help you, keep you in the loop per say, I'll get the case files. Deal Agent Gibbs." The consulting detective agreed. He strode out through the still opened door. "By the way, call me Sherlock." And the man disappeared behind a corner. The three men left in the room looked at each other inquisitively.

"John, Sherlock does realize he doesn't have the case files yet, right?" Greg inquired, turning to the bemused army doctor. John motioned as if to shrug, then realization lit his face.

"He's off to terrorize your team, I'm sure. Hope they don't scare easy." John winced, turning to Gibbs. Gibbs narrowed his eyes at the blond man. It was illogical. Sherlock seemed a man with few friends, and little use for the ordinary, and yet, this man was his companion. He seemed utterly ordinary. It was… perplexing. And Gibbs was the smallest bit suspicious. Not caring if he offended the man, Gibbs took a step closer to John.

"Who are you?" Gibbs said, fixing John with a stare.

"Doctor John Watson. What do you mean?" John asked. His blue eyes narrowed in bemusement.

"Who are you to him?" Gibbs demanded. If he was going to be working with these two men, he needed to solve this puzzle. The two men that Gibbs had just assented to working with were utter opposites. If there was history, Gibbs felt it was necessary to know about it. John smiled in understanding.

"We do make an odd pair, ya? Sherlock Holmes is my best friend, and flatmate. And I play the role of his bloody keeper and blogger. It's how we work." John said, shooting Gibbs an unoffended grin. It cleared nothing up. "I better go catch up with said man before he brings your team to tears." And then the short, jumper-wearing, man was gone.

There was nothing to do but follow him.

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**I hope you enjoyed! Review please!**


	6. Chapter 6

**I can't apologize enough! I did not mean to take this long to post this! I know, it's been months! A lot of people expressed worry that I had abandoned this story, and I just want to assure everyone that I have no intention of doing so. I am apparently a terrible procrastinator. I want to thank everyone who has reviewed, favorited, or followed, your support really means a lot to me. So, right I can't apologize enough for the delay. I'll try to get the next chapter up sometime this year. So right, still un-beta-ed and/or brit-picked. All mistakes are my own, and you know, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I'm so sick of saying that I own nothing that I'm too lazy to come up with a witty way to say it. So yeah. Own nothing.**

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"You do realize there's no electronic trail. You're wasting time looking for one." A voice drawled from the doorway.

McGee's head shot up, with the rest of the team to see Sherlock Holmes reclining casually in the doorway.

"Ever heard of covering all bases?" Tony shot back. Of course it would be Tony, desperate to prove to this Sherlock Holmes character that he wasn't as transparent as he seemed. McGee still couldn't stop wondering about the _obvious attraction_ between him and Ziva. It _was_ rather obvious. McGee didn't like Nutter Butters _that_ much.

"Dull." The mysterious man declared, swooping into the room. And there was no better word for it. Holmes's long coat trailed behind him, and as he descended onto the team's work he looked rather predatory. Without permission, he snatched up files and photographs, scanning them quickly before tossing them aside. "I let Scotland Yard do the boring work." The rest of his comment was almost inaudible, his mind entirely focused on the information.

"Hey, do you have permission to swoop in here and steal our information?" It was Tony again, recovering from his shock to approach the tall man.

"Oh do relax agent DiNozzo. I'm not planning on stealing your credit. Your boss agreed to let me have full reign of your case." The man's voice was arrogant and unbearably smug, as he rolled his eyes at Tony's defensiveness.

"Not quite Sherlock. Do stop antagonizing these nice Americans. It's not bloody impossible to explain yourself before barging in you git." Another voice spoke from the doorway. It was the other man from the crime scene, Sherlock's apparent partner. His voiced was laced with fond exasperation as he strode over to Sherlock, pulling the file from his hand for a glimpse. A scowl painted Sherlock's face. The Team couldn't help but notice the slightly softened edge to the man's tone as he reprimanded the other man.

"Pot calling the kettle John." And then before the shorter man even had time to roll his eyes, the file was being snatched again. This time by Gibbs. The Team watched in mild bemusement as Sherlock and their boss engaged in a stare-off. Sherlock eventually conceded; face darkening in what could be mistaken for a pout. "Fine."

The other man, John, rolled his eyes at his taller friend. "I suppose we should properly introduce ourselves. I'm Doctor John Watson. And this is-"

"Sherlock Holmes." The other man interjected, lacing his voice with just enough _something_ to sound mysterious. The Team watched with faint amusement as Dr. Watson rolled his eyes yet _again_ at the man. McGee found himself wondering if the man got brain damage from such constant eye rolling. It seemed likely.

"So what are you? A private detective?" This time it was Ziva, tilting her head in Sherlock's direction. For some reason, the man seemed to take offense from the question; he turned towards his partner, hands gesticulating wildly.

"_Bloody_- Does _everyone_ assume that I'm a PI?" The older man smirked at Sherlock's frustrated tone.

"At least it wasn't batman this time." Sherlock scowled, before turning back to Ziva, who had an entirely confused look in her eye.

"I'm a consulting detective, only one in the world. Now if you've all run out of dull questions, John and I have a murderer to catch." Sherlock made to swirl away. Gibbs instead stepped between him in the door.

"Ziva, McGee, go with Sherlock and Dr. Watson. You're to keep us in the loop, remember?" Gibbs's blue eyes narrowed dangerously, as if begging Sherlock to protest. A flare of indignation lit the detective's eyes, before he nodded slightly.

"I won't be responsible for the condition they come back in. Come along then." Sherlock declared to the older man, before striding out the door. John jogged after the man, while Ziva and McGee lingered.

"Try not to punch the man." Tony advised. Ziva smirked.

"No promises." And they were off.

* * *

Squished in the back of a taxi with Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and McGee, was really not what Ziva had been expecting for her trip to London. Then again, her expectations had been much worse. Sherlock had flagged down a taxi, snapped an address at the driver, and refused to say a word, staring blankly out the window. The first ten minutes of the trip had been spent in awkward silence, Sherlock studiously ignoring everyone, John seemingly oblivious, and McGee and Ziva slightly apprehensive about what was to come. Then, Dr. Watson decided to take pity and strike up a conversation.

"So you were in the Mossad?" The Doctor asked, tilting his head at Ziva with interest. There was something in his gaze, something that contradicted the fluffy oatmeal jumper he was wearing. This man was a fighter, Ziva noted, she would be careful not to underestimate him.

"Yes. I served in the Israeli army also. My father was the director of Mossad." Dr. Watson nodded.

"I thought I recognized the name, from what I could actually understand out of this prat's dialogue." The Doctor nudged his companion roughly, the companion who was now turned towards the three of them, eyes darkened with interest. Gray eyes flicked over Ziva, and she was privy once more to the analytical stare. A light seemed to go off behind his eyes in what could only be an epiphany.

"You did say was? Sorry to hear that. How did the director die? He was rather hospitable the last time I was in Israel. After he determined I wasn't a terrorist." Sherlock Holmes spoke casually, as if announcing her father's death was no big deal. Ziva felt McGee stiffen beside her, but if anything she was amused. She wondered how this posh man would fare in a Mossad prison cell. It was an amusing thought. Before she formulated a response however, Dr. Watson was reprimanding Holmes.

"Bit not good, there. Boundaries, manners, feelings? Ring a bell?" Something like scorn, and maybe a tint of sulk slipped onto the curly-haired man's face. "Dull," was all he said before turning back towards Ziva and arching an eyebrow expectantly.

"He was killed in a drive-by shooting. I am surprised you did not know. It happened some time ago." Ziva said mildly, staring right back at the man. To her surprise, the man scowled fiercely.

"Politics. I probably deleted it." And then he turned back to the window. Ziva turned towards the blond man for a translation.

"He deletes what he deems not useful. The idiot didn't even know that the Earth goes around the sun." McGee snickered beside her. Ziva allowed herself a small smile, noting that though he called Sherlock an idiot, John had a fair amount of affection in his tone. Ziva was spared from answering as the taxi slid to a halt at the latest abduction scene. Mr. Holmes leapt out of the car, making a gesture at Dr. Watson. McGee and Ziva went to follow, but Dr. Watson halted them.

"Might as well just stay in the cab. He'll be back in a sec." The Doctor sounded sure of himself, and figuring that the detective wouldn't go anywhere without his partner, both agents sat and waited. The watched through the back of the taxi window, as Sherlock seemingly talked into the shadows, coat swirling around him in the faint wind. Watching as a grubby hand reached out of the shadows, and Sherlock in turn stuffed a couple of bills into it. He nodded sharply, before striding back to the cab.

Sliding in and slamming the door, the detective eyed Ziva and McGee with disdain.

"Any chance we're getting rid of you two?" John was quick to admonish him, but the man paid no mind. Ziva tilted her head, not bothering to verbally answer. "Of course not. Right then." Sherlock abruptly turned towards the taxi driver. "221B Baker Street."

As Sherlock turned back to the window, John looked apologetically at the other two.

"That'd be our flat. I'll make us some tea."

* * *

Dr. Watson never did end up making them tea. Spent in silence, the ride back to the flat was relatively short. When the taxi pulled to a stop in front of the door proclaiming 221, the agents followed by John clambered out.

"You're paying the fare Sherlock. Retribution for my poor jam." Ziva couldn't help but wonder what had happened to said jam. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. As soon as the tall man joined them, they all approached the door. John dug around in his pockets, awkwardly standing on the door step. Ziva watched in bemusement as horror flitted across the blond man's face. "I don't suppose you've got your key Sherlock. You bloody well dragged me out of the flat before I could grab mine."

A brief sheepish expression crossed the other man's face. He chose not answer, instead pounding on the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Seconds later, the door opened to reveal a woman past her prime, an indulgent smile painting her wrinkled face.

"Locked ourselves out again did we boys? There's a spare key under the mat you know."

"Sorry Mrs. Hudson." The old woman waved off Dr. Watson's apology.

"No trouble dear. Best I let you in, Sherlock looks about ready to burst." Fondness laced her tone. "I'll go put the kettle on. A good cuppa works wonders." Finally seeming to catch sight of the two NCIS agents behind the 'boys', Mrs. Hudson started. "Oh, who's this? Come in dears." With this she finally moved to let them in the entryway. Sherlock immediately darted up the staircase, tearing into the flat. John stayed to explain Ziva and McGee's presence.

"They're American special agents helping with Sherlock's newest case." Dr. Watson explained, gesturing to Ziva and McGee. "Special agents Ziva David and Timothy McGee." The old woman looked delighted.

"Oh my! Just like a crime novel! Murder is it? Sherlock rarely gets so excited for anything less." She spoke of murder as if it was a rare treat. McGee struggled not to flinch.

"Yes, a real grisly one. Should spare your walls for a bit." Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson smiled together conspiratorially.

"Why don't you all head upstairs, I'll bring up some Hobnobs and tea. Just this once, mind you, I'm not your housekeeper." And the old woman disappeared into the flat marked 221A. Dr. Watson gestured them up the stairs,

"Head on up. Flat's in a bit of a state, Sherlock is a disaster when he's in a sulk, just try not to step on anything."

Ziva's first impression of 221B was that it was certainly a mess. Books were scattered across the floor, and a half-full Chinese take-out carton rested by the couch. Papers covered nearly every flat surface, and a bright yellow smiley face was painted on the wall. It was riddled with bullet holes.

A knife held a Cluedo bored in place, and slightly below it was a human skull. Sherlock Holmes himself was sprawled out on the couch, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

"John…"

"No Sherlock, not going to work. You've been doing so well." Doctor Watson was firm, as he walked over to the couch. He gestured for Ziva and McGee to take the arm chairs, before he lifted up the consulting detective's feet and tossed them off the couch. He dropped onto the cushions, met with a disgruntled grunt. "Scoot over a bit, we've got company." The other man seemed to pay no attention.

"This is at least a three patch problem John. Exceptions can be made." His tone was whining, almost pouting.

"No." Sherlock wisely chose not to push his luck.

They sat in silence, until a few moments later, when Mrs. Hudson ascended the stair with a tea tray. Ziva and McGee were grateful; they were feeling distinctly out of place, superfluous. Neither had any idea what the point of following the consulting detective around was; it felt distinctly like babysitting.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, you're a life saver. Let me just clear a place for that." John eyed the coffee table, considering. It was covered in papers and possibly other things, judging by the oddly shaped lumps. Dr. Watson seemed to be thinking the same thing, as he turned to Sherlock, who now had his fingers pressed together under his chin like he was praying. His eyes were closed.

"Anything radioactive, toxic, or explosive on the coffee table?" Ziva and McGee started with fear, both simultaneously leaning away from the coffee table. Sherlock's voice was indignant as he answered.

"You made me promise to keep all my experiments in the kitchen!" John stared at the man until he opened his eyes, shooting an entirely too innocent look towards his flatmate.

"You left a dead possum on my chair two days ago. Must I ask again?" Sherlock smirked at that. He tilted his head back in thought, closing his eyes again.

"Nothing potentially deadly John. Honestly." At his response, John nodded, before turning to the coffee table. With one big sweep of his arm, the table was clear. Shattering glass punctured the silence. Sherlock's voice was irate.

"I liked that beaker!"

"And I liked my green jumper. I enjoy getting some of my own back."

Chuckling, Mrs. Hudson set the tray down.

"If you need me boys, I'll be downstairs." And she exited the room.

"Help yourselves." John said, pouring tea into two cups. They watched as he added milk to one and sugar to another. He took a sip of the sugared tea, before handing it to Sherlock. The detective sipped, humming his approval. John rolled his eyes. And so the waiting began

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**Review please! Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Once again, sorry for the wait! But, it was a shorter than the last wait? So it's a little better? Anyway, I just want to, as usual, thank everyone for their comments and support, I really appreciate it! A lot of people have brought up questions and/or little things that are off and I would like to apologize for them. In case you couldn't tell, I'm American, and there are probably plenty of British things that I am completely butchering in my ignorance. That was not the intention. Also, I'm not in any type of Law Enforcement, and I occasionally lack common sense, so I apologize for any discrepancies on that front. But, even if you want to point out stupid mistakes I'm making go ahead! I enjoy any feedback! But anyway! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to either Sherlock or NCIS. If only.**

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DiNozzo shifted restlessly in his seat, anxious to do something, anything. That was the problem with this case, there was no suspect, no suspicious person to question, and everything was a very clean in and out job. It was the type of case that Tony hated. Any items used in the killings were simple enough to come by, and were never bulk ordered. There was no apparent link between any of the murder victims, no common factor. Tony leaned back in the chair provided to him, bouncing a paper ball off the wall.

Perhaps worst of all was the fact that NCIS didn't really have claim to this case. No matter what boss may have told that Sherlock Holmes character, they didn't have any real influence on foreign soil. They were guests, guests who happened to have an interest in a murder.

Tony swiveled his seat as the back of his neck began to prickle. As expected, his boss stood mere feet behind him.

"Anything, Boss?"

"No."

Tony sighed.

"What about McGee and Ziva? Did Holmes find anything? What was up with that anyway? The man swooped in, looked at our files for a second, and disappeared. What was the point?"

Gibbs eyed Tony.

"He didn't really need those files DiNozzo. Learn to recognize a power play. That man could probably hack into any data base he wanted for our files without breaking a sweat. He wanted to scope us out. That's why he's keeping an eye on Ziva and McGee; he's seeing whether or not we can be useful to him."

Heaving an irritated sigh, Tony hated the fact that they may or not measure up to the posh British man's standards. Tony admitted to himself that it had been quite odd that the man had shown up at all, seeing as he had given the files less than a moment's notice. Most of his attention, in fact, had been focused on the other people in the room. And then…

"What's with the man with him boss? He doesn't seem the type to tag along to crime scenes. Something about him too, just seems… off."

Gibbs' brow furrowed in understanding, and he nodded.

"Dr. John Watson. I think that, out of the two of them, it's Watson that we should keep an eye on. Not Holmes."

Tony couldn't help but agree.

* * *

It had been hours, and still, McGee and Ziva had done nothing but sit there. Sherlock sank into silence immediately after the tea arrived, leaving John, McGee, and Ziva all alone, though he was technically still there.

"He gets like this. Says he's in his Mind Palace, and not to be disturbed. Only thing to do is hunker down and wait." Dr. Watson had explained, before scooping up a newspaper and settling further back into the couch. With nothing else to do, Ziva and McGee had simply sat there; loathing breaking the comfortable silence around the two men.

It seemed like hours, but in reality was only perhaps one, when McGee and Ziva were saved from eternal awkwardness by steps on the stairs. Something was off about them, however, they were much too light, and… bare-foot?

Sherlock straightened up immediately, frowning. There was a soft knock at the door, and a soft voice was calling through the wood.

"Mister Holmes, sir? The network's gotta report." Ziva and McGee started in surprise, if they weren't mistaken, that was the voice of a child! Sherlock and John however did not seem surprised. If anything, the former was frowning, and perhaps a bit interested, while the latter seemed concerned, especially after a quick coughing fit sounded on the other side of the door.

"Wiggins, come in." John said, eyes fixed on the door. McGee couldn't stop his jaw dropping slightly in surprise when it was indeed a child who appeared in the doorway.

She was perhaps older than a child, eleven or twelve at best, and she was short. Chopped hair hung around her face, dirty enough that its color was indistinguishable. Wearing nothing but rags, and missing even shoes, the girl still managed to enforce her presence.

Once she caught sight of John, she stepped further into the room.

"Doc," She said with a grin. "I really gotta thank you for that help with my ankle. I can walk good as new now."

The doctor couldn't seem to snuff out his small grin, but he did manage to convey disapproval through his eyes.

"I do believe that the payment for my services was that you would wear the shoes I gave you? No matter who else needed them?"

"Aw Doc! The littl'uns needed 'em more. Little Mary couldn't even feel her toes!" Wiggins protested, eyes sparkling halfway between guilt and amusement.

"And what good will you be to all of them if you come down with pneumonia? Don't think I couldn't hear you coughing. You're taking a paracetamol."

"You sure Doc? Mister Holmes looks like he's 'bout to blow a gasket at our natterin'" Indeed, what Wiggins said was true, as Sherlock had a slightly constipated look on his face. John, to McGee and Ziva's amusement, simply shook his head at Sherlock fondly.

"Too bad. You're not to tell him a thing until you've taken some medicine." Wiggins and Sherlock rolled their eyes in sync as John's back turned. They shared an exasperated look, apparently neither appreciated scoldings.

Wiggins seemed to notice Ziva and McGee for the first time, and gave a little jump.

"Who are they? They aren't no coppers are they, Mister Holmes?" The girl's gaze was suspicious and she subtly took a few steps closer to the door.

"I wouldn't think about it Wiggins. John will have my head if I let you leave without some medicine. Look at them and tell me what you see." At Sherlock's orders, Wiggins gave them a once over.

"Americans. Agents, right?" Wiggins offered. Sherlock grinned.

"Very good."

Ziva and McGee weren't blown away by the deduction, but by the fact that the two men were so obviously comfortable with a homeless child. Neither had seemed the child type.

John reentered the room, holding a glass of water and a pill. He passed both to Wiggins and made sure she swallowed both before settling back down on the couch.

"Go ahead. Give him the report."

"Okay, first off, Mister Holmes, you might want to know that there's a new gang on the rise. They've not been doing nothing too bad yet, just smashing some cars and stuff. They're callin' themselves the Butcherin' Barracudas. Going by that name though, they're not gunna be around for long." Sherlock nodded, taking in the information, apparently storing it for later use.

"Secondly, I got some news for you. Old Margaret, you know, the one Doc helped out awhile back, saw your body drop. She said she was sittin' for a rest and the guy just appeared in the alley and dropped the body. She thinks he musta alley-hopped or somethin'. He saw her though, and said he'd kill her if she talked. But Maggie don't like being in anyone's debt. So she said that now she and the Doc are even."

Ziva and McGee sat dumbfounded at this rush of information. Out of the corner of her eye, Ziva saw that John had slipped out a notebook to jot notes, and Ziva was glad at least one of them had the presence of mind to take notes. It seemed that their killer had finally slipped up. Sherlock was sitting straight-backed on the couch, eyes alight with interest. He gestured to Wiggins.

"What else did she see? Give me everything."

"She said she looked ova and saw the guy wheelin' a box up the alley. And that it sorta collapsed outwards and he laid the body down. She said that he scattered him all ova the alley and that she was almost sick. Then he walked ova to her, and said real low like, so she couldn't getta read on his voice: 'Tell anyone what you saw and you'll be the next victim.' And then he strolled away just like that. He was wearin' gloves she said, and he made sure to scuff up his tracks as he walked away. He folded the box right up and just disappeared the way he came."

"Did she get a good look at him? See his face? How tall was he? How much did he weigh?" John asked these questions, as Sherlock stared off into the distance clearly thinking. Pen pressed between his teeth, and notebook perched on his leg, John looked the role of a perfect assistant. McGee would bet his next book's rights that Sherlock never even looked at his painstaking notes.

"She said it was dark Doc, and that she couldn't see much of anything. But his eyes, she said were darker colored and he had light hair. He was tall too, he came like up to here," Wiggins lifted her hand to about Sherlock's height. "And he weighed like 14 or 15 stone. Maggie used to be a tailor ya know, she's real good at tellin' these things. He wasn't pudgy neither, she said, he was real in shape like. That's all she got."

McGee couldn't help his little smile. This was it! This could be their break in the case. Perhaps this Sherlock Holmes character wasn't so bad at all.

"It's imperative that I speak with her Wiggins, I need to ask her some questions."

"Uh uh. No way Mister Holmes sir. She said no way was she gunna be seen with you, that you'd go and get her killed. She don't want to see the Doc either, cuz everyone knows he's just your lackey." John looked indignant at being called Sherlock's lackey, and Sherlock looked indignant at being denied anything. It couldn't have happened very often. Both of them opened their mouths to argue at the same time, when a phone began to ring. It was… an orchestra?

"John, phone." Sherlock ordered. John rolled his eyes and walked over to his coat. He removed two phones from his pocket and glanced at them, before tossing the ringing one to Sherlock.

"It's Lestrade."

Sherlock nodded, pressing it to his ear with an intent expression on his face. John noticed McGee and Ziva staring at him. He shrugged. "What? It saves time."

Sherlock ended the call, brow wrinkled.

"You're free to go Wiggins. Keep me updated of any further developments." When the girl had gone, Sherlock turned towards them with a grave expression.

"We may have a problem. Lestrade's found another body."

"But it hasn't been-"

Sherlock grimaced, but his eyes told a different story, they were alive with excitement.

"It seems the killer has upped his ante. We've got a new crime scene to go to, come on." The man clambered to his feet sweeping out the door. John, followed by McGee and Ziva, purposely grabbed his keys and coat, and followed.

* * *

Once more, the crime tape led to an alley. Lestrade massaged temple, feeling a headache coming on. This case was… Well, let's just say he couldn't blame the Americans for being stumped. Already two bodies, and had been less than 48 hours. And the way the victims were killed? He had been on the force for almost 20 years, and he had never seen anything like it.

It was inevitable that Sherlock was brought in, Christ; this was the type of case that the man lived for! He seemed to be getting on with the Americans rather well, Lestrade supposed. None of them had killed him. Yet. Lestrade prayed to God that the genius would manage to solve this case rather quickly. If the press found out that an American case had migrated to London, and just how brutal the crimes were… The public would be in a panic.

Lestrade looked up from his post on the wall, eyeing the NCIS team leader and his Senior Agent as they snapped photo after photo. They still had no clue who this victim was, as, judging by her clothing, or lack of it, she was homeless. It didn't make the crime any less terrible. There had been a note, but it hadn't made any sense to any of the investigators at the scene. Lestrade hoped Sherlock would be able to give him more seeing, as the note contained his name.

Speak of the devil, Lestrade thought, as he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing down the alley. Turning the corner was the Consulting Detective himself, followed, as usual, by John. Surprisingly, the two NCIS agents also appeared no worse for wear. Lestrade decided to call this a win.

Sherlock's eyes slid over the body parts, taking in information, analyzing and deducing. When he reached the head, Lestrade watched with dismay as he frowned in recognition. John, a step behind, gave a slight gasp. Lestrade knew that it wasn't at the state of the body, not from a man who ran around with Sherlock Holmes.

"Bloody hell…" John whispered, rubbing at his eyes. Lestrade watched with concern. If these two had known the victim… It indicated that the killer was getting personal. Could this case get any worse? Lestrade looked to Sherlock the question clear in his eyes. Everyone gathered around the crime scene did the same.

"Her name is Margaret, she used to work as a tailor, but when the business failed, took to the streets. She has arthritis in her right wrist." He paused. Lestrade butted in when he had the chance.

"Look since you knew her, perhaps you know what this note means?" He took a step forward, as four perfectly in-sync voices asked,

"There was a note?" If not for the fact that there was a brutal murder victim on the ground, or that John and  
Sherlock had a rule about giggling at crime scenes, it would have been funny.

"Yes, perhaps you can take a look?" Sherlock strode forward, coat billowing behind him. Pulling a pair of gloves from his pocket, he gently took the offered piece of paper. He sighed, holding it up over his shoulder after he had finished reading it.

_I don't kiss and tell, Sherlock Holmes._

This was about to get messy.

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**I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading and please review!**


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